


what the water gave me

by Spineless



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Automail, Found Family, Gen, Hurt Edward Elric, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Parental Roy Mustang, Pre-Canon, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-26 21:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15009377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spineless/pseuds/Spineless
Summary: One rainy day after a mission, Ed's automail gets infected and gives him strife. Luckily, he is surrounded by many exasperated people who care deeply for him. Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> T for language. Title from Florence + The Machine
> 
>  
> 
> For my wife. Feel better, my dear

Upon waking up, Ed knows exactly the kind of day it’s going to be. Telltale stiffness weighs in his right shoulder and left thigh. He’s wincing before he even opens his eyes. When he does, a moment later, it’s with a quiet sigh. The gray light streaming through the window confirms his suspicions. He lies still in bed, letting the final vestiges of sleep drain away even though he wants to chase them, and badly. But he knows if he stays in bed too much longer Al would come knocking and want to know if anything is wrong and nothing is wrong. He’s fine, obviously. 

Ed pulls himself up into a sitting position and goes through a few stretching poses learned years ago from Teacher. The muscles in his right shoulder tense and spasm and he breathes through it, he breathes though it, the only thing he can do is breathe and stretch. He was careless on their last mission, misjudged a move he really shouldn’t have, and wrenched his shoulder, his already fucked-up shoulder. It definitely isn’t the worse injury he’s sustained during his time in the military, a fact he tries to remember as he completes his stretches and starts to get dressed. 

Al is sitting at their tiny kitchen table with a leather bound alchemy volume and a slightly ratty looking notebook when Ed emerges from their bedroom, dressed and rubbing sleepily at his eye. He gives his brother a small wave and drops into the seat across from him. 

“Morning, Al.”

“It won’t be morning for much longer.”

“Oh, give me a break, it’s hardly ten.” Ed pushes himself out of the chair and goes to rummage through their tiny kitchen. He knows they don’t have anything particularly appetizing stocked, he’s mostly moving things around, gently banging pots and pans and squinting at tin can labels. 

Whatever. He wasn’t super hungry anyway. Instead he fills their kettle and puts it on the stove. Maybe some tea will help warm him up, help relax his sore body. While he waits for the water to boil, he sorts through some of the books thrown about the front room. Ed frowns as he thumbs through volumes and stacks them on the table. 

“Have you seen my notebook?”

Al shakes his head and Ed’s frown deepens. He checks his bag again, and finds a piece of paper he thought he had tucked away. Damn it. He chews his lip and surveys the table. That thing has all his recent research in it.

Alphonse stares evenly at him. “Maybe you left it at headquarters yesterday.”

Ed considers it. Mustang had been in a meeting when they dropped by yesterday on their way back from the train station, report in hand. They waited in his office for him and tested all the pens in, on, and around his desk on the little scrap piece of paper. Breda and Havoc were impressed at the amount of writing utensils the Colonel could possibly posses. Ed pocketed the one with the smoothest flow. But did he remember to pocket his notebook? It was a better possibility than having left it on the train. The thought of having lost his notebook in public scrapes at his nerves. He was fairly confident no normal person would have a damn clue what his notes said, but he couldn’t take his chances. If the notebook _wasn’t_ at headquarters, he would have a problem. 

Ed sighs. “I guess I should head over and check.” Reluctance stains his voice.

“Now?”

“May as well. It’s got all my stuff. I’m a little useless without it.”

“Okay. Want me to come?”

Ed shakes his head and grabs his red coat strewn over the back of his chair. “It shouldn’t take too long.” And he could pick up some lunch on his way back. 

“Okay. See you later, brother.” 

“See you, Al.”

* * *

 

Though already midmorning, hardly any of the sun’s light is able to pass through the heavy clouds. Edward takes off at a brisk pace, hoping to be back before it can start to rain in earnest. His body protests: his shoulder pulls, his thigh port is jarred with every step. Losing his notebook was stupid. He should know better. But he was just careless. Again. 

He doesn’t make it very far before the first drops start to fall. He throws his hood up to defend against the drizzle, but soon the rain starts to fall faster and heavier. The few people out on their business head for shelter in storefronts and under awnings. Some with foresight open up big black umbrellas and continue on their way, unbothered. Ed trudges forward. His shoulder smolders, but there’s nothing he can do but breathe through it. The clouds looks low enough to touch, like he could just reach up and sink his hands into mountains of grey wool. 

Off in the distance, part of the sky is lit by a flash of lightning, followed shortly by the knowing rumble of thunder. So much for getting back before it rained. He’s not even halfway to headquarters. Ed pauses under a storefront awning for just a moment, breathing heavier than he would like. Maybe he should just head back. He can try again when the rain lets up and half his limbs stop burning. But he needs his notebook. And if it’s _not_ with Mustang then he has to call the train station and see if he left it there. And if _they_ don’t have it, then _fuck_. He needs that notebook.

He presses onward, trying to ignore the rough edge of nausea that weighs in his stomach and the pounding in his head. East City thunderstorms were nothing compared to the ones they had in Resembool, he reasons. In the summer the heat would sit around and collect until it burst and dispersed in the form of thunder and lightning that shook the house and set trees ablaze. During the rainy season it could rain for days and days, like that year that the river overflowed and Teacher came and helped. 

But changes in atmospheric pressure were changes in atmospheric pressure, no matter where they occurred. Through his sodden coat, Ed paws at the juncture where his automail port meets the flesh of his shoulder. His leg starts to drag. At least he can finally make out Headquarters looming in the distance. The big grey concrete block of a building fits perfectly with the weather. He can grab his notebook and take a hot shower and maybe go back to bed and sleep the rest of the day away. Then whenever he wakes up he can order food and go through notes with Al and maybe finally, finally, his body will stop feeling like it’s gonna start falling to pieces. 

The stairs at the front facade almost do him in. He has to stop and catch his breath what feels like every third stair, just has to stop and stand there in the downpour, his stumps hissing, his stomach roiling with unproductive nausea. If he’d eaten he would have certainly lost his breakfast by now. 

He hates this. This is what he’s fighting against when he pores through books and research and his damn notes––he’s fighting against a life of pain, fighting for an answer. Of course his priority is to get Al his body back. Of course it is. Ed would give anything for his brother to live a normal life. But he also wonders if there lies a future where Al has his body back and Ed lives in a little less pain. By the time he drags himself through the entrance, his leg feels like it’s going to buckle under him at any moment. 

Ed tries to ignore the stares he receives as he makes his way through the corridors that will eventually take him to Mustang. He knows––he _knows_ he must look like a drowned cat, but he can’t worry about what he looks like, he has to worry about getting his notebook and getting back into bed and putting a hot water bottle on his thigh. 

He pushes open the door to Mustang’s office and everyone looks towards him. The Colonel breaks off a sentence directed to Hawkeye and shares a look with her instead. His eyebrows shoot towards his bangs and the corners of his lips twitch in amusement. Breda snorts and Havoc grins. “Is it raining out there, Chief?” 

“Very funny.” Ed rolls his eyes. “Sorry to burst in without calling, but I won’t be long. Did I leave my notebook here yesterday?” 

Mustang pats the surface of his desk, moves some papers, and picks up the small black book, tied with twine, with papers sticking out. “Yours, I presume?” 

Ed’s heart speeds up. “Yes!” 

“In the future, you may want to be more careful with your possessions.” He extends it forward with a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, I will be.” 

Edward takes a step towards Mustang and his notebook, then another one, and then his leg gives out. His knee hits the ground, hard, bringing the rest of him down along with it. He lists to the right, and when his elbow makes impact, his jolted shoulder screams. He lies on the floor of Mustang’s office and gasps. 

“Edward!”

“Ed?”

“Fullmetal––!”

He wants to wave them off, say he’s fine, but he has to be able to breathe in order to talk. His body doesn’t take well to being thrown on the floor and it sure let’s him know it. 

It didn’t really rain until a few weeks after his automail surgery. Granny and Winry had prepped him with what to expect––an ache, like a sore muscle, at the least, some nausea, maybe––but the pain still surprised him nonetheless. It wasn’t just the muscle and flesh that hurt, but the nerves hurt, the _limb_ hurt, even though it couldn’t, since it wasn’t there, since it was made of metal. He didn’t always get nauseous, some days differed from others. But it knew how to rain in Resembool. At least the Rockbells always had a hot water bottle waiting. 

“Sorry,” Ed manages through clenched teeth, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. He knows that everyone is crowded around him and giving him concerned stares, he knows that Hawkeye and Mustang are talking to him, one on either side, but pain and sensation still occupy his mind. He turns his head to the side and starts to retch and dry heave. Bile licks at his throat. Maybe it knows how to rain in East City too. “Sorry.” 

“Ed––what’s wrong?” Hawkeye brushes his bangs aside and presses the back of her hand to his forehead. Her eyes are wide, concerned. He’s still soaking wet. That shouldn’t be hard to fix. It’s not. All he has to do is put his hands together then onto his person and he could convert all the water to steam and be dry in an instant. His left hand twitches, then his right, metal fingers rattling.

To Breda, Mustang says: “Get a medic.” 

“ _No_.” That certainly helps Ed finds his voice. “Don’t. I’m okay.”

“You’re on the floor, Fullmetal.” 

“It happens. Geez, gimme some room, would you?”

The pain hasn’t quite started to fade, but Ed moves to push himself upright anyway. The people around him exclaim in surprise and lurch forward, but he holds up a hand. Once he’s sitting, he’s able to take better stock of his body, and it isn’t great. His stomach churns, its emptiness not dissuading nausea. The pain in his shoulder and thigh is hot, buzzing, and constant. Ed extends his legs out in front of him pats down his port through his sodden pants. The muscle around it feels tight, swollen. Ed can only imagine how it looks. He knows his shoulder must be in an even worse state, the muscle probably red and hot and angry looking. 

“Sorry,” he starts off again, slowly, staring down at this lap. “My stumps hurt in the rain.” He doesn’t want to see the pity in anyone’s face. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t want it. This is his burden to bear, after all. 

Havoc breaks the silence. “Let’s get you off the floor, Chief. It can’t be comfortable.” 

Ed accepts Havoc’s and Hawkeye’s help getting him upright and poised to stand. But when he tries to take a step towards one of the couches, even light pressure on his automail leg causes his knee to buckle again. He falters, a sound halfway between a grunt and a growl escaping his lips, but with Hawkeye and Havoc on either side, he doesn’t fall. They support him while Fuery brings over a chair from one of their desks. He slides into the seat, shaking all over. 

Mustang’s arms are folded over his chest. “Does this happen often, Fullmetal?” 

“I mean, it varies. Some days are better than others.” Ed presses his hands together and then to his body. With a spark of blue light, he’s dry, like he didn’t just trek across half the city in a downpour. His skin feels clammy, and though dry he still feels chilled. “Usually I just take a bath and try to sleep.”

“Walking all that way from your apartment probably didn’t help.”

Ed forces himself to not roll his eyes. “I needed my notebook. You know how important my research is.”

“I’m sure it could have waited a day, or at least a few hours.”

“You _know_ how important my research is _._ ”

“We’re all aware, Fullmetal. But you can’t do much research if you can’t walk back to your apartment.”

Ed flushes red and ducks his head. He stares at his hands clenched in the material of his coat. How was he supposed to know it was going to be this bad today, or that he would get caught in the rain, or that his fucking leg would just collapse? “Thanks for the reminder, Colonel.”

Mustang sighs. “Lieutenant Hawkeye?”

“Sir?” 

“Once Fullmetal is feeling up to walking, would you accompany him back to his apartment?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Ed leans his forehead on the cool glass and watches the city pass by through the spattered window. The rain, though still constant, has let up slightly from its earlier barrage. He sees brunch-goers dash from their cabs to restaurants, watches a paperboy in a rubber coat attempt to sell his wares. Puddles have formed at curbs and in potholes around which Hawkeye maneuvers expertly. The motion of the car makes his stomach lurch. He focuses on not focusing on anything at all. 

_Don’t you ever get tired of just doing whatever the Colonel says?_ he thinks about asking her, but he doesn’t, because he knows better. He likes Hawkeye, even if she does scare the shit out of him, and truly does not want to get on her bad side. He has a feeling she would just turn the question onto him, anyway. 

When they reach the apartment, Ed releases a little breath of relief. He’s so much closer to being _home_ where he can _sleep_ or otherwise not move for a while, where he doesn’t have to overthink every interaction he might have with his superior officers. 

He frowns as Hawkeye turns off the car. “I can take it from here, Lieutenant.”

She stares back at him. “Don’t you and your brother live on the third floor?”

He immediately flushes red. “I’ll be fine, alright?”

“Edward.” Her voice is quiet in a way that demands to be listened to. “It’s okay to need help.”

He knows he won’t be able to shake her, so he sighs in annoyance and ducks his head and extracts himself from the car. He can’t even make a decent case for himself, anyway, he _did_ collapse in Mustang’s office. Hawkeye joins him at the curb and the two make their way into the building.

The first flight of stairs, Ed is fine. He figures he was winded by the ones outside headquarters earlier because of his walk in the rain, but now that he’s dry, he’s fine. It’s only halfway up the second flight that the burning in his leg becomes more persistent again, more nagging, and before they start on the third, he has to stop and collect himself. He leans against the wall, one arm wrapped around his torso while the other grasps helplessly at his leg. He’s thankful for small mercies, like the fact that it’s Hawkeye here, that Mustang didn’t insist on accompanying him himself. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stand it if the Colonel were making his snide remarks while he struggled to reign in his nausea and unsteadiness. But he has to press on. He’s only one staircase and half a hallway away from taking a bath and going to _sleep_.

Halfway up the final flight, Ed’s left foot doesn’t quite clear the stair and he stumbles, pitching forward. Hawkeye’s got a hand on him in an instant, keeping him from face planting. She helps him straighten up. 

“Thanks.” He knows his face must be the same color of his coat. 

She inclines her head slightly but doesn’t say anything. Ed takes the last few stairs slowly, trying to maneuver himself upward without putting too much strain on his leg.  

His hands shake just slightly as he attempts to unlock the front door, but once more Hawk is gracious and doesn’t comment on it. He finally manages to open the damned door, calling “Al, I’m home! Lieutenant Hawkeye is here, too.” 

Al is still seated at the table and looks up from his book when they enter. “Hi, Lieutenant. What brings you all the way here? Did you find your notebook, brother?”

“Hello, Alphonse. Just helping Ed home in the rain.”

Ed leaves his brother and the lieutenant to converse while he makes a beeline for his bedroom. He strips out of his coat, leaving it on the floor, and sinks onto his bed, leg trembling. He just wants to collapse back into the pillows, despite his earlier yearnings for a hot bath. But before he can even do that, he has to take stock. The chills and clamminess he felt back in Mustang’s office haven’t really left, despite him being dry. He removes his jacket, then peels off his shirt, neither of which are easy to do without exacerbating things. The flesh around his shoulder port is hot and tender under his fingertips. He’s sure his leg isn’t much better. Ice will help the inflammation, but it won’t help the muscle-deep soreness. Or the nausea. 

A sound from the doorway catches his attention and he turns, though a little too fast, and grimaces in pain. Hawkeye stands on the threshold, looking back at him with a probing stare. Somehow Ed knows that she’s not really seeing _him_ at all, she’s seeing his automail and the port and she’s seeing the scar tissue and inflammation. She’s seeing his mistake. She’s only seeing his mistake. She takes a few steps into the bedroom and Al fills in the space in the doorway she previously occupied. 

“This happens every time it rains?” She’s stopped a few feet from the bed, from him, like she wants to get a better look.

Ed shrugs his flesh shoulder and tries not to meet her eye. “Like I said. Some times are better than others.”

“You shouldn’t have gone out in that weather, brother.”

“How was I supposed to know it was going to start raining the second I left?” 

“You could listen to the radio every once in a while.”

“Can you both just––just back off?” He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need to be in pain _and_ be hounded by his baby brother and his boss’s lackey. He needs a bath and he needs to sleep while he waits for the atmospheric pressures to sort themselves back into a state that doesn’t torture him. “I’ve been dealing with this for years. It isn’t anything new.”

Hawkeye looks like she wants to say something but Ed, frankly, doesn’t want to hear it. He stands and waits for her to move out of his way and once she does he grabs some clothes from on top of his dresser and heads to the bathroom. His knee dips––once––but he remains upright and shuts the door with slightly more force than warranted. He’s sure Hawkeye is telling Al all about what happened in Mustang’s office and that a lecture will be waiting for him when he’s out of the bath. He doesn’t look forward to it. 

He turns the hot tap to full blast and peers into the mirror while he waits for the tub to fill. He twists and contorts his torso, trying to get a better look at his back. It looks similar to his front. Once he’s removed his pants, his thigh doesn’t seem to be any better. If anything, the inflammation looks worse, which doesn’t surprise him, seeing how much it hurts. 

Once the bath is the proper depth and temperature, Edward longingly, lovingly, sinks into it. He groans in both relief and pain. The heat surrounds him and is as encompassing as being swathed in blankets and blankets. He thinks about the covers on his bed and how good it will feel to slip under them soon.

 

* * *

Ed is slightly disoriented when he wakes up.The water has cooled significantly and the unmistakable feeling of missed time hangs over his head. More than just a doze. There’s a hard knock at the door. It’s probably what woke him in the first place.

“Brother? Brother, are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine, Al!” He’s not so much of an invalid that his brother needs to _check_ on him when he’s just trying to take a bath. 

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_ , Al, damn it!” Why can’t anyone leave him alone today?

“I was just checking.”

He counts to five and waits for the clank of his brother’s footsteps to fade before he starts to collect himself. He’s not surprised he fell asleep, seeing as he had wanted to do nothing more since waking up in the first place anyway. Grogginess clings to him like the water and he eases himself upward gingerly. His shoulder and thigh still hurt, but the soak has done wonders for the muscles themselves. He holds onto the edge of the tub as he climbs out, making sure his automail foot clears the edge. 

Ed towels himself dry, leaning on the sink to take some strain off his port. He didn’t get his hair too wet as he never had the chance, but he takes the time to brush the golden strands before redoing his braid. The back of his neck is damp. He takes a final look at his scarred body and slips on his boxers and pajamas. He thinks the swelling looks a little better, but instead of heading back out into the apartment he has a seat on the lid of the toilet. The air of the bathroom is humid and cooling on his skin, so even though he’s technically dried off he doesn’t feel properly dry. He could dry himself off with alchemy, like he did earlier, but even that feels like too much work. Everything is too much work. He sits and leans his head on the edge of the sink and wonders if Al knows where their hot water bottle is. He knows they must have one. If he can find it then he can just heat it with alchemy. _That_ wouldn’t be too much work. It’s a shame that the apartment doesn’t have an icebox, but freezing water solid isn’t much harder than heating it up, he supposes. 

Although, everything besides sitting right here seems like it’ll be too much work. 

* * *

 

Knocks on the door wake him up––again––but this time he really _was_ only dozing. 

“Brother! Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

_No_ , Ed thinks for a moment, placing a hand on his forehead as he straightens up from his decidedly uncomfortable position. _Maybe not_. His head pounds in earnest, and he’s less than delighted to realize that his nausea has returned. He really does not need this right now. “Yeah, Al, I’m fine.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“ _No_ , I’ll be right out.” He leaves the towel on the floor to deal with later and gets to his feet, using the sink as support. He opens the door and limps into the bedroom. 

Al stands nearby, probably not believing Ed when he said he’d be okay. He wordlessly offers his hand and Ed stares down at the leather gauntlet for just a moment before he takes it. Hand in hand, the two brothers cross the distance of the small room to the bed by the window. Rain beats against the glass. By the time Ed is seated again, he’s sweating, which does not help his feeling of perpetual clamminess. 

“Thanks, Al.” He leans back against the mattress. “I feel like shit.”

“You look like it.”

“ _Thanks_.”

“I’m only being honest. The lieutenant is still here, by the way.”

Ed shoots up. The sudden altitude shift makes his head and stomach swim. “ _Still?_ ” She’s as stubborn as her boss. 

Al nods. “She just wants to make sure you’re okay. Then she’ll leave. That’s what she told me.”

Ed sighs with a rough, angry edge. He flops back down onto the bed and glares at the ceiling. Then he rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in his pillow. When he doesn’t say anything else, Al heads to the door. “You can come in, lieutenant.”

He can’t see her, but he can hear Hawkeye’s footsteps and that they stop few a couple of feet from the bed. “How are you feeling, Edward?”

He turns his face, screwed up in exhaustion and pain, towards her. “Fine. Really.”

“Really.” 

“Yeah, really. Thanks for the lift. And keeping Al company.”

Before he can say anything to stop her, she’s kneeling on the floor beside him and is pressing her palm to his forehead. “You feel a little warm, Ed.” 

Her hand is cool and dry and he doesn’t have enough energy to pull away. “’S’ok. Just the inflammation,” he mumbles half into his pillow. “It happens.” 

“Does it now.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Every time?” She says this partially to Alphonse as well. 

If he could shrug, he would. “When it rains a lot, sure. It’s just what happens.” 

His body’s own darling autoimmune response. Granny explained all the details of it, way back when he first had the surgery. If Hawk and the others thought this was bad, they should have seen him that first year, back in Resembool. That first time it rained after receiving his new limbs, the only thing he could do was lie in bed and gasp and sweat. He breathed through the pain and filed it away to be remembered: this was his mistake. His burden to bear. If he had to lie in agony every time it rained, for the rest of his life, even after getting Al’s body back––then he would. 

Hawkeye doesn’t look too sure. She’s got this look on her face that Ed doesn’t like, a slightly scrunched expression that reads a little too much like pity for his taste. He’s run out of ways to convince her that he’s okay, or he’s as okay as he’s gonna get with this damn rain. This is what he gets for showing the smallest weakness is front of Mustang’s gang: they’re never going to leave him alone. 

“Okay,” she says at last. “You know your automail better than I do. I hope you feel better soon, Ed.” She rises from the floor. 

“Thanks. And thanks again for the ride.” Ed closes his eyes and listens as Al walks her out

His notebook has been found. He’s in bed. He can go back to sleep.

Finally.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed's automail is more than just strained. It's infected. Luckily he is surrounded by many exasperated people who care deeply for him.

Earlier the rain had slammed against the roof and sounded, at times, like the world was ending. But now the storm has moved on and the barrage has lessened to a mere gentle tapping at the windows. 

Winry leans back in her seat with a quiet groan and rolls her neck and shoulders, stiff from being hunched over the metal pieces strewn across her worktable. The work took all of her concentration so the storm had passed by mostly unnoticed. She looks down at the half-built arm and compares it to her carefully drawn schematic, checking and double-checking measurements. The phone in the hall rings and she nearly drops her pencil in surprise. The interruption is at once both unwelcome and much needed. 

She answers on the second ring. “Hello, Rockbell Prosthetic Limb Outfitters.”

“ _Hi, Winry._ ”

She blinks in abject surprise as she recognizes that echoing, high pitched voice on the other end of the line. “ _Alphonse_?” A pang of delight and something that feels strangely like homesickness laces through her. Those boys called as often as they came to visit, and they only came to “visit” when Ed broke her automail. “Well, this is unexpected.” She holds the phone to her ear with both hands and leans against the wall. A door opens somewhere in the house. 

“ _Oh… yeah_.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice. Where are you calling from?” She wonders if Ed made Al call her, the coward, making his brother bring news of busted automail. 

“ _East City. Is everything okay in Resembool? I tried calling earlier, but the call never went through._ ”

“It was storming pretty bad before, the phone lines always go a little weird in the rain.” 

“ _It’s raining here, too._ ” 

She frowns. There’s something in his voice that she’s not used to hearing. “Is everything okay, Al?”

“ _Well…_ ”

“Has something happened?” Her grip on the phone tightens as a hundred different scenarios––none of them good––cross her mind. “Is it Ed?” 

“ _Winry… what are the signs of automail infection_?”

She taps her head against the wall twice, not lightly. Of course. Oh, of course. These _stupid_ boys. 

She cycles back to her lessons with Granny, back to diagrams in textbooks, lists of symptoms she reads to new patients. Her voice still catches in her throat. “The flesh around the ports will be hot to the touch and swollen. Irritated. Maybe a different color.” _Flesh_ , she says, like this isn’t _Ed––_ “Accompanied by fever, chills, sweating. Alphonse, if Ed’s automail is infected, you cannot fix this by yourself.” 

“ _Brother––Edward––_ ” A pause. “ _He’s not going to be happy_.” 

“So then tell him what I’m telling you. Automail infection won’t go away on its own, he needs medicine, treatment. If it gets worse, then the flesh will atrophy or the infection could spread and––Alphonse. He could _die_.” Lightheadedness sets over her as she says it. She starts doing the math, how long it would take to get to East City if she left _right now_ , they probably have a train schedule somewhere, she’s sure she has enough money for a ticket. 

“ _It’s okay, Winry. I’ll get him to a doctor._ ”

“Don’t bring him to a civilian hospital, the military hospital has a few automail specialists. I’ll get you a list. Hold on just a sec, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“ _Okay.”_

Winry rests the phone on the hallway stand. Her hands are shaking. She turns to bolt back into her workshop but freezes at the sight of Granny standing not far, her own work clothes stained with grease. 

The old woman arches a thin eyebrow. “Everything alright?” 

Winry shakes her head. “Al called. It’s Ed. His––Alphonse thinks his automail is infected _._ I’m gonna get him our list of specialists in East City.” 

“Then you better go do that.” 

The list is pinned to the corner of the cork board above the table, half covered by various sketches and schematics and designs and diagrams. Winry plucks it off and reads the names slowly to Alphonse, who she imagines is dutifully writing them down. 

“You’ll let me know,” she says once she’s done, breathless, “if––once he’s okay, I mean? You’ll let me know?”

“ _Yes. Thank you, Winry._ ”

“Call back when you have some _good_ news for once, okay?” 

“ _I will. And I’ll get him to a doctor really soon. Don’t worry.”_

“Okay, Al, I won’t. Bye.”

“ _Bye_.” 

Winry hangs up the phone and wipes at the moisture accumulating in her eyes. It’s dumb to cry over something like this and she knows it. She doesn’t even have all the information––Ed’s automail might actually be fine––but maybe that’s why she’s almost crying. It’s hard not knowing. It’s hard when Ed comes back to her, automail in pieces and won’t ever tell her how it got that way. All she can do is sit here and worry about them. 

Granny rests a hand on her upper arm. “Ed’s a fighter. You know that.”

“I know, Granny. I know.” She does. So why does’t that help?

* * *

 Mustang stares out the window, a look of barely masked distain coloring his features. It’s raining. It’s been raining all damn day. And, if the radio can be trusted, it’s going to rain all of tomorrow too. Wonderful. 

Minutes ago Hawkeye left him there to brood while she went to bring a car around. Most days he would have told her not to bother, but today, with the rain, well… he’s glad she offered. He couldn’t find it in himself to stay late. The paperwork on his desk will be there in the morning.

With a sigh and a swift gesture he pulls his coat from his chair and slides it on, straightening his collar in the window’s reflection before turning to leave. As he passes around his desk, the phone rings. 

Typical. 

Frowning, he stares down the phone. The work day is technically over––he could just leave it. But he doesn’t. With another sigh, he picks it up. 

“Mustang.” 

“ _Hi Colonel. It’s, ah, Alphonse Elric._ ” Like Mustang wouldn’t recognize that unmistakable voice anywhere. “ _Sorry, I know it’s––well, I was just wondering…”_

“What is it, Alphonse?” His tone is short but not unkind. 

“ _Is Lieutenant Hawkeye there?_ ”

“You just missed her. Do you want me to give her a message? Or is there something I can help you with instead?”

The hesitation on the other end of the line is palpable. Roy recalls Fullmetal’s earlier visit: his soaked appearance, how he collapsed in the middle of the room. The visceral pain on his subordinate’s face. And now, his brother calling. A slight trickle of dread creeps into his stomach. 

“ _It’s brother,_ ” Alphonse says at last. “ _I think… I think something’s really wrong.”_

* * *

The problem is that Al just doesn’t _know_.

He _thinks_ something is wrong: his brother’s pain, his stiff movements, the fact that Lieutenant Hawkeye said that he had fallen at headquarters earlier. But he can’t tell _how_ wrong something may or may not be. 

He watched his brother sleep more or less peacefully for the first few hours after he came home, accompanied by the Lieutenant. Alphonse had brought his books with him into the bedroom and sat on the second bed against the wall, but couldn’t bring himself to read. He watched the expression on his brother’s face change from blankness to one of pain. It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression; it looked like the one Ed wore when he was having a nightmare. Then he watched his brother open his eyes and peer blearily around the room. He had sat up, squinted at him, then rolled over and fell back asleep. 

Ever since then, he’d been tossing and turning, groaning, pawing at his ports with his eyes squeezed shut. Often he seemed to be between sleep and wakefulness. Al approached the bed. 

“Brother,” he asked quietly. “Are you alright?” 

Ed’s voice was thick with sleep and pain. “Jus’ tired, Al.” He certainly sounded it. “’s’t still raining?”

“Yup.” And the radio said it would rain tomorrow too. 

“Great.” He sounded so, so tired. 

Al saw that Ed’s face was all red, and that he was sweaty, too, but he was gripping the blankets tightly around his body. He had waited until he had fallen back asleep before slipping out of the room to call Winry. 

What she has to say doesn’t comfort him. He had noticed earlier that his brother’s shoulder port _did_ look irritated, as did Lieutenant Hawkeye, but Alphonse has no feeling in his hands. He can’t discern temperature differences to even tell if his brother has a fever. He just doesn’t _know_. It’s why he tries to call the lieutenant. He thinks: okay. Maybe it’s time for an adult.

* * *

Their tiny military-appointed apartment seems even tinier with both Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye standing in the front room. Though Alphonse towers over the two of them, something about their presence makes him feel small.

“I think brother’s automail might be infected,” he says after closing the door behind him. He hadn’t said so over the phone.

The two officers share a look.

“How can you tell?” Lieutenant Hawkeye asks. 

“I called Winry––Rockbell, you know, his mechanic––and she said the signs were irritation, swelling, heat, and fever.” He counts them off on his fingers. “You saw his shoulder earlier, lieutenant, it doesn’t look good. But I… I can’t tell if he has a fever or not.”

“How serious is an infection, Alphonse?” The Colonel is frowning. 

Al shakes his head. “It won’t go away on its own. Winry says he has to go to the hospital. A military hospital, with an automail specialist. She gave me a list…” He rifles through papers at the kitchen table until he finds the right one. He sighs. “Brother _hates_ hospitals.” 

The Colonel reaches up and places a hand on Alphonse’s forearm. “It’s for his own good.”

Hawkeye pushes open the bedroom door and crosses the room. She kneels next to the bed, just as she did just a few hours earlier. Ed is lying on his stomach, his head turned to the side. His breaths are coming quick and unevenly, his face pale and splotchy. She places the back of her hand against his forehead, the side of his face, his neck. Over her shoulder, she calls to Mustang and Alphonse, a touch of surprise in her voice, “He’s burning up.” 

When she turns back, a pair of glassy golden eyes are peering at her through a pain- and sleep-induced haze. “Winry?” His voice is thick. 

Hawkeye smooths back his bangs. “Ed, it’s me. Riza.” 

He blinks, face scrunched up in pain and confusion. “Lieutenant?” He thought she left. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“I… what are you doing here? Is… is that the Colonel?” He can make out Mustang’s blue-clad form in the door, and Alphonse towering just behind. What is going _on?_

Sleep and pain cling to him, try to pull him back down. Ed makes to sit up, but everything feels wrong. His limbs are heavy, and not even his automail ones. Those burn, his ports and stumps simmering. His head pounds, and––he’s freezing. He rolls onto his back and pants.

“You have a fever, Ed, and not a slight one. We have to get you to a doctor.”

“It’s not… it’s just the rain.” But even as the words leave his mouth he knows it’s not true. A fever. It must be why he’s cold all over, why his head feels waterlogged. 

“Brother, this is serious.” Alphonse steps forward. “I called Winry––I think your automail’s infected.” 

“Infected?” It better not be. Winry would kill him.

Edward forces himself to sit up, the sweat-soaked sheets pooling in his lap. The room absolutely spins, the image of Hawkeye sloshing like his stomach. Oh, _god damn it_. He scrambles forward and vomits over the side of the bed, narrowly missing the lieutenant. He hasn’t eaten all day; the only thing that comes up is bile that burns like his fucking automail. 

Hands on his shoulders press him gently back onto the pillows. He’s aware of people talking over him, movement in the room, drawers being opened and closed, and––he’s scared. Fear boils over in his brain like a pot on a stove. Infection is _bad_. It was the scariest thing Winry and Granny would spook him with, back when he first had the surgery and his body accepted the prosthetics. They showed him detailed pictures of corrupted flesh, festering ports, gangrene, sepsis, blood disease. He could lose even more of his limbs than he already had. He could die. He could _die_. 

His breaths come faster. He can’t die. He can’t die. If he dies, Al would be alone. He’d be stuck in that damned armor. Or. Or. The blood seal. The link. He bonded his brother’s soul to that armor with his own blood, if he dies––what will happen to Alphonse’s soul?

“Fullmetal, _breathe_! That’s an order, damn it!”

The Colonel’s sharp tone breaks him out of his panic. Edward gasps for air, his hands grasping at the mattress. “ _Al_.”

Alphonse’s voice is much gentler than Mustang’s. “I’m right here, brother. But we have to go, okay?” 

Ed swallows once, then again. He can hardly taste the foulness in his mouth. “Okay. Okay.”

If anyone in the room is disturbed by Edward’s uncharacteristic acceptance of his fate, they don’t say anything. Hawkeye helps him sit up and drapes his red coat around his shoulders. Then Alphonse scoops him up in his metal arms, blankets, coat, and all, and holds him close like he doesn’t weigh a thing. As the four make their way out of the apartment and down the stairs, Alphonse tries not to think about how familiar this feels. He wants nothing more but for Ed to fall asleep again, so _he_ doesn’t have to think about how familiar this might feel. 

Despite his desires, Ed’s eyes stay open and unfocused. He’s lost in a memory from a lifetime ago. 

They pile into the car––it’s _still_ raining––and Alphonse has to hunch over to fit. Hawkeye drives as fast as safely possible with the slippery roads in the direction of the military hospital. Ed groans from the jostling, his breaths shallow. 

“You’re not gonna let them take my arm my leg are you Al please don’t let them take my arm not again. Not again. Please Al please _don’t_.” His words slur together and come as fast as his breaths. 

Seeing his brother suffer is as close to feeling pain as Al gets in this body. He brushes back blonde strands from Ed’s forehead. “They might have to, brother,” he says quietly. 

Ed’s face melts into anguish. “No Al please, please don’t let them, please I can’t. Not again.” He tries to shake himself out of the metal grip but all he manages to do is hurt himself more. He gasps and groans. 

“How much further?” Al does a poor job of quelling the panic in his own voice. 

“Almost there."

Alphonse holds his brother tighter. 

* * *

It’s strange. He’s hot and cold all over, both at once. He sweats but shivers. He knows he’s somewhere new, but the truth is he’s aware of little else. Well, besides the burning. The burning, like his arm is being taken again and again. 

It’s fine. They can take his arm. They can take his arms, his legs, his heart, his soul. They can take it all. Just give him his brother back. His baby brother. Give him back.  He’s all he has left. Don’t take his brother. Mom is already gone. Please. 

No. No. Al is right there. He’s staring down at him with those red soulfire eyes, the ribbon on his helmet bobbing up and down. He’s saying something, but Ed can’t hear him. They’re taking his arm, they’re taking his leg. He’s being unraveled again––like in the Gate, being unspooled, taken apart strand by strand, element by element. Will there be anything left of him when they’re all done? He doesn’t think so. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe this is exactly how things should be, how it should have gone in the first place. Maybe a great wrong is finally being corrected.

No. That’s stupid. They’re taking his right arm. That’s _his_. Winry is going to kill him. 

“They _have_ to, brother.” Alphonse sounds like he’s been crying, but that’s impossible. He can’t cry. He doesn’t have tear ducts or eyelids or lungs. “Stop fighting. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”  

“I can’t, Al.” His voice doesn’t sound like his own. He sounds like he’s underwater. “Not again.”

“For me. Please, Ed.”

He would do anything for his brother. Anything. He would give his body up a hundred times over. His eyes slip closed. Well. “Okay.” 

The water drags him down, down, down.

* * *

After the first day, outside the ward, outside the hospital, the rains move gradually west, pushed along by gusts and gusts of wind. The sun shows its forgotten face, shyly peeking out between thready clouds.

Alphonse hadn’t been there when Ed first woke from his automail surgery. Winry and Granny wouldn’t let him, said the risk of contamination was too high. But he had sat outside the door. He had heard his brother’s cries. His screams. The way he yelled _Mom!_ and _Al!_ and _Oh, god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, tell him I’m sorry, please––_

He begged him not to let them take his limbs. Not again. But they _had_ to, Al tells himself, knowing he’s being stupid, they _had_ to, or he couldn’t get better. He still hates himself a little bit for letting them do it. 

Ed spends most of the first two days asleep. He’ll wake up a little bit, move around, mumble a few words, before dropping off again. It makes Al a little nervous, but the doctor, and older woman with light brown eyes, tries to reassure him. The fever and infection have to run their course. The first few days are of vital importance. His body has to take its time to recover, to rest, to heal, so it can fight off the infection. The doctor tells them that Ed will be okay. They caught the infection early. He should make a full recovery. 

_Small mercies_ , Alphonse thinks, the morning of the third day of Edward’s hospitalization. Today, the doctor begins to wean Ed off sedatives. Hawkeye and Mustang stop by before heading into the office. They don’t say anything about it, but he knows they must want to be there when Ed wakes up on his own. The two have been visiting as often as they can. The hospital is right by headquarters, after all. Hawkeye will come when she takes lunch, she stops by in the evening with the Colonel, and they’ll stay for a little while. Al appreciates the gesture, and the company. He knows the nurses and doctor eye him warily, he knows they must want to say something, but they don’t. He figures the Colonel must’ve had a word with them. He appreciates it. 

A nurse makes changes to the IV line and Edward wakes up in stages. Alphonse can see them flit across his face. First, the blankness of total unconsciousness, then, a shift. A twitch here and there. Eyes moving under closed lids. His chapped lips draw downward in a frown, then his forehead creasing. His lips move, but no sound emerges from them. Alphonse holds his brother’s remaining flesh hand in his own of leather. 

“Can you hear me, brother?” he asks quietly. 

The Colonel and Lieutenant stand a respectful distance from the bed, but they watch with intent. 

Ed’s lips move again, then finally, his eyes open. They’re heavy with the vestiges of sleep and sedatives, glassy with painkillers. “Al?” his voice is hardly more than a whisper. 

“I’m here.” 

Ed turns his golden head from side to side, resting on the space where his right arm should be. Al can’t see his face. He turns back, expression indescribable. “Mom?”

Mustang stiffens, but Al presses on. 

“You’re in the hospital. Do you remember? Your automail got infected. They had to take it so you can heal.” They had to. 

“You’ve been pretty sick, Ed.” Hawkeye steps forward. “We’ve been worried about you.”

Ed’s frown only deepens. “Mom?”

“You’re getting better,” Al insists. “The doctor says so. But you’ll be here for a few days. Just rest for now, okay?” 

His eyes slip closed again. “Okay.” 

From there, waking up gets easier. Later in the day, after Mustang and Hawkeye have left for work, but before they visit during lunch, Ed shifts on the bed, wincing in pain. Al clenches and unclenches his hands and stares expectantly downward. He doesn’t know what his brother might remember.

Those golden eyes. Maybe it’s Al being a little too hopeful, but they seem more lucid than before. “Hi, Ed.”

“Hi, Al.” His voice is rough. He swallows and winces again. 

“How do you feel?”

“I gotta say. Not great.”

Alphonse huffs a small laugh. “That’s not surprising.” A pause. “The doctor had to take off your automail.”

“I know. I remember.” 

So much for that. “They had to––”

“I know. It’s okay, Al.” 

Oh. He doesn’t know what to say. Maybe there’s nothing _to_ say. What he wants to say, is _please be more careful_ and _you have to take care of yourself_ and _you scared Winry_. But he doesn’t. At least, not yet. 

Ed yawns and rubs his eye. His fever hasn’t quite broken, but it’s much lower than when he first arrived, controlled by medicines and antibiotics that run through his veins. He’s getting better. He’s gonna keep getting better. He’ll get better just in time for Winry to absolutely murder him. It’s probably what he deserves. 

“Tell Lieutenant Hawkeye thanks for me.”

Al startles, but recovers quick. “Sure. Um. For what?”

“For the ride.”

* * *

 Alphonse slips away despite his brother’s pleading look to _please don’t leave me here alone_. The Colonel and Lieutenant are warming up for the lecture of a lifetime, he’s sure of it, but Al doesn’t have to be here for that. Ed had it coming anyway.

A passing nurse directs him down a hallway of telephones and he stands in front of the farthest one. The number he dials is one that he memorized a long time ago. A memory that transcends bodies. 

“ _Hello, Rockbell Prosthetic Limb Outfitters_.”

“Hi, Winry.”

Silence. Then, “ _How is he, Alphonse?”_  

His heart clenches at her tone, but he swears he can hear his brother’s indignant yells from down the hall. “He’s gonna be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write a second chapter after all. I myself have been under the weather this week – like Ed, strangely enough, I foolishly decided to traipse around in the rain. Bad idea. But writing this has been a comfort, like writing fic usually is. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think––feedback is always lovingly appreciated.


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